


Under the Dying Light

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: A light from one of the oil lamps fluttered, and then died out. The room grew darker and the boy, feeling the embrace of the Void beginning to surround him, wondered what he would do to make the most of his time left in Dunwall. Though he fancied these nightly conversations, ultimately they amounted to little. Talking would not change his fate, nor would it speed the fall of this terrible city.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fowo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowo/gifts).



If anything positive could be said about a sickness, it was the abundance of well-fitted clothes. The boy was lucky enough to find a pair of suitable breeches left behind after a Fugue, if not then he’d have to risk stealing a pair. In almost every case the boy would hurry to the Wrenhaven, dip the trousers, boots or linens in the murky water until he was sure whatever smells there were before, even the good ones, were snatched away by the current. He didn’t pretend to feel bad about it. He wasn’t a cruel lad, but didn’t see any _practical_ reason to shed tears over what he naturally benefitted from. He had a nice pair of dark slacks, and boots that fit.

Right now everyone was sick. Something contagious was finding its way into the districts, striking anyone who wasn’t careful. It was a different sort of sickness, too. The people who were infected with it didn’t just cough or wheeze, suffer a misbalance of the humors or occasional spasm. When they coughed the phlegm was thick and laced with blood, the shaking turned to seizures, and the heat of the fever quickly shifted into a stiff, cold rigor mortis. Worst of all, before death there was the change, a sickly transfiguration that turned the men and women into the walking dead. Flies collected around them and their skin turned pale and emitted a foul stench. Every wheeze release from their chapped lips mirrored a death rattle. But they did not die, not right away. They lasted long enough to spread the illness, to warn the noblemen to stay away, the guards and Abbeymen to draw their swords.

The boy watched safely in the shadows as high walls were erected, gates emitting electricity appeared at every other corner, and crates were filled with the bodies of men and women, some of which weren’t even infected.

The boy pressed on. He sauntered between alleyways, watching the fog from his breath leave his lips as it grew colder by the hour. This was a different kind of sickness. The word “plague” was shared between wives browsing the market. The boy was less willing to trade his thin, worn clothes for something heavier. His bony fingers squeezed the small muscles of his arms as he continued deeper into the city, counting the large rats that raced passed him, feeling the cold of the stone pavement beneath him through worn boots, and the heaviness of the crowded buildings above him.

* * *

It was nightfall when the officers were finally done with the weekly neighborhood cleanup. At the end of the street was a carrier loaded with bodies, some wrapped in linen, others wearing the stiff, stained remains of their cloths. 

“I swear, we’re picking up more every week,” complained Jacob. He rubbed the back of his neck, sore from a hard day’s work.

Ahead of him, two more men in uniform stood in front of a small crate overloaded with bodies. A carrier’s engine ignited, spewing out a hot burst of steam before driving off, its destination just outside of Dunwall. The three remaining officers collected around the crate, Jack’s neck tightening at the sight of gathering flies huddled around the rotting mass. “If this keeps up, soon there’s isn’t going to be enough room to send them out of Dunwall.”

“Shit,” replied Brain, followed by the shake of his head and a light kick to the crate. “At the rate they’re dying? We’re going to have to hire more gravediggers.”

It was a grim situation. Just a few months ago watchmen and volunteers from around Dunwall worked to dig graves for every body they found. Back then a couple dozen a month was considered high, now it was getting to a point where there wasn’t time to dig a grave for each person. Now officers spent all week digging up one giant hole, deep enough to fit a few families. It was a thankless, discouraging job. Men were cycled out, a few placed in quarantine, others sent straight into the Flooded District in order to “make space,” a nice way of rephrasing the dreaded knowledge amongst many of the officers that space outside of Dunwall was becoming increasingly limited.

Jacob wanted comment on Brian’s rather inappropriate kick, warn his companion of mistreating the dead, but a shatter of glass echoing down the crowded alleyway stopped him.

“You here that?” the third officer, a young man named Lewis muttered.  “Who’s out there?”

The three men huddled close, each with a hand hovering over the weapon of their choice. They concentrated their efforts into locating the origins of the shattering glass, swallowing thickly or holding a breath when something soft and wet hit the cobblestone floor. Two of them turned to the street ahead, guns raised at each possible corner.

Brian wheezed. “Fuck, what if it’s one of the infected–”

“Shut it!” Lewis hissed through barred teeth. “Show yourself.”

From a distance the three officers spotted a small, lanky figure peeking its head from the left side. Manmade lightings were fixed all over the quarantined street, creating long shadows where they normally wouldn't. The officers kept their guns pointed at the unknown figure, and it took Jacob swallowing a lifetime of fear in order for him to demand that the shadow take another step forward. The head turned, and from its center two glints of light flashed as the figure took a step closer into the light. They immediately lowered their weapons when they saw it was only a boy in rags, carrying what looked to be an amalgamation of garbage. A pale, curious looking boy, with cheekbones sharp from lack of nutrition, and large dark eyes filled with secrets.

“You again?” Jacob muttered. He was the first to drop his gun, stow it back into the holster on his belt and replace the weapon with a questioning finger.  “What have you got there?”

Lewis stepped forward, his eyes squinting to make out the shade of old cloth that the boy cradled in his arms. “Red cloth?” he questioned, though it sounded like an accusation. Right as the eyes of the other two men adjusted to the faded red curtains did Lewis notice something sharp prodding from underneath the red sheets. His stomach twisted in a rage when he saw the tip of what appeared to be a broken tibia. “And bones? ...You little son of a–”

The boy broke into a sprint. The three chased after, Brian far behind as he counted the times a little something fell off the boy’s person. A _tinkle_ from a spoon. A hollow _thud_ from wood. When Lewis and Jacob reached the end of the street the boy was nearly out of their sights.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lewis reached for his gun. “Get over here!” Jacob ran up to him and, more so to conserve bullets than to avoid killing a child, stopped Lewis from shooting. The men looked at each other, agreeing it was better to let the boy go for now. “Fucking kid…”

Jacob leaned against the front door of a closed shop. “He’s always up to no good.”

Lewis shifted. “You know the boy?”

“Sort of. We spot him from time to time, wandering the streets for food. Sometimes clothes,” Jacob explained. He looked over and saw Brian slowly approaching them, a few pieces of worn silverware, a bone and a book in his hands. “Didn’t realize he was a worshipper though.” 

“Times like this, people will turn away from the Abbey to look for a reason,” Brian replied before casting his findings into the ground. The spoon and fork bounced from top to bottom before vibrating and resting between the cracks in the road. The bone, thick in appearance, but hollow from within, splintered before falling on top. The book fell on its spine, and its pages spilled open, exposing the mark belonging to the Knife of Dunwall.

Lewis immediately kicked the book on its side, shielding them from the ghastly sight.

“Honestly, it doesn’t really surprise me,” Jacob confessed. “Kid has always been an outsider. Never bothered looking for work, asking for help or handouts…”

There wasn't much to say about the boy called the outsider. Jacob could not recall the exact day the boy appeared wandering the streets, only that he remembered trying to persuade the child, offer him the services all men of the guard were expected to give to lost orphans. But the boy refused to give his name or his hand, and he ran from the prospects offered to him by the workhouses, the Abbey and the officers. Years went by with the occasional sighting, and once in a while a conversation was struck as to how much longer the boy would last.

“Yeah well, if this _outsider_ keeps it up he’s going to catch the plague,” Lewis growled. His boot slammed against the side of the book with a wet smack, his scowl stretching against the irritating sounds of the bone and silverware grinding underneath. “Probably deserves it, too.”

“Don’t be like that, Lewis,” Brian said. 

It was starting to rain. All three looked up and decided to return to their post. The book, deteriorating with age, held the permanent mark of Lewis’ boot pressed on its side.

Lewis had the last say of the night. “Anyone who’s dumb enough to worship false idols deserves what’s coming.”

* * *

The boy found it fascinating when people said that Dunwall consumed the unfortunate, because as it would turn out Dunwall was a city build on top of an ancient civilization. He discovered the secret by accident one night, while looking for shelter. Under the complex waterways were the remains of a lost world, and a successful one at that. A people who possessed a language far different from the English he spoke, leaving behind old pottery and decor that were too cracked to use.  

He spent days digging deeper, forgoing food and fresh water in favor of decrypting the hidden world swallowed by time. He crawled into tighter spaces, reached further into the darkness, until he was too weary to keep going. Dunwall’s outsider lay exhausted under the remains of a decrepit temple, filled with regret that he was too weak to continue this strange journey. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, prepared for deep sleep.

But he awoke in empty space. It was an area unlike any he dreamt before. Rubble from the past collided with cut brick from his time. Wall covered in strange paintings were met with finely cut brick. He floated and saw water pour and stir above and around him. Weary from days of work with little reward, the boy sank into the Void. He watched his few surroundings pass above him, and continued to sink further, when a gloved hand pulled him out, and he met the tired stare of a god.

He was not afraid. If anything, the boy welcomed the solidifying figure greeting him, embraced the large hand with his own, and asked as tirelessly as he could to know whom he had the pleasure of meeting. Much to his satisfaction, the figure replied, whispering an unrecognizable sound into the boy’s ear. Soft leather stroked the top of the boy’s hand as the strange sounds were replaced with his English, and the god’s request to place his mark on the boy.

It was the first of what would come to be many meetings.   

“Is the plague your doing?” he asked the deity one night. 

The boy sat in the corner of an abandoned house once belonging to a family. There were handmade paper dolls on the table, jars of preserved meats, vegetables and jams were still in the cupboard. A fantasy book lay open on the couch, and half-knitted blanket was folded on the arm of a rocking chair.

Across the room, standing before a poorly constructed shrine adorned with red blankets, broken stained glass and silverware, stood a ghastly looking figure. He eyed the shrine with mild curiosity. The boy felt that the god’s soft blue eyes clashed against the blood red fog that surrounded him. 

“Well?” the boy persisted. “Have you grown tired of this city and intend to have another built on top?”

The deity turned away from the shrine. The oil lamps flickered, and the boy could make out the entirety of the Knife of Dunwall’s peculiar appearance. The Abbey warned that the god of death would be manipulative, seductive in shape and word of the mouth, but the figure that stood before the boy took the form of an older man adorned in a simple, worn red uniform. The ends of his coat and the leather gloves were permanently blemished from constant washing. He possessed the sharp, calculating eyes of a man who killed; not for pleasure as the legends claimed, but for reasons that the boy didn’t care to indulge in. Surrounding those eyes were lines of age–no, not necessary age, but collective stress from always being engaged, the rush of the hunt, the fear of potentially becoming the hunted–and scars. He was covered in scars. One dragged down his face and neck, reminding the boy not only of the dangers he was willingly humoring himself with, but of the difficult life he lived before being fated to this new one.

The scar on the bottom lips stretched while he contemplated his answer. “Are you afraid of what the plague might bring?” he asked.

“I’m curious,” the boy confessed. “Tell me, _god_ ; when you let this city fall to ruin, will you take me with it?” 

“You wouldn’t be the first child lost to ruin.”

A sly smile grew on the boy’s face. “But would I be the first that caused you to hesitate?”

“Do you think you’re that special?” Dark red smoke twirled across the room, temporarily covering the boy’s vision. The deity’s voice rang in his ears. “I’ve many followers in this city alone.” 

“A fact I know you’re not proud of,” the boy stated with a calm voice. He waved a hand, shooing away the red fog in favor of meeting with his admirer’s pale stare. Out of everything the Knife of Dunwall possessed, those eyes were the most alien part of him. They were an unearthly shade of blue that seemed to pull the boy inward. The longer the boy stared, the more weight he felt pressed on top of him. They were the eyes of the Void, consuming and never-ending, and yet there was something terribly human about them. Those eyes made the confident outsider uneasy and unwilling to offer himself to the Knife of Dunwall and his unknown desires.

“And,” the boy added, “out of the many cultists who worship you, I can rest assure you’ll visit me every other night, in some way or form.”

The oil lamps flickered. 

“You sound incredibly confident,” the deity murmured, bringing a gloved hand to his chin. 

“I’ve no reason not to be,” the boy replied with a thin smirk. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back to the wall. His chest tickled, and for some reason, the image of Dunwall Tower flashed in his mind. The boy opened his eyes and saw the dark red shadow casting over him. “I’m sick, you know.”

The shadows stretched further. The strange smoke erupting from the Void seemed to twist about, as though in agony. The Knife of Dunwall did not move.

“I’m not sure what it is, but…” The boy’s fingers traced over his chest, recounting how much lighter it used to feel. Despite his age, he did not fear death. A life such as his made fear towards the inevitable impossible. “You won’t have me for much longer.” 

“I know,” the deity replied, crossing his arm and looking away from the boy. The child sat in his corner, measuring the space he created between himself and the shrine and the god that stood before it. He had picked this corner not out of safety or concern, but to watch and analyze the figure that was obsessed with him. What was it, the boy wondered. He was a curious lad; making decisions based solely on what he thought would end with the most interesting result. He was a survivor, outlasting many outcasts before him. He was an outsider, unafraid to distance himself from the rest of the scum that inhabited this city. Still, he pondered.

The boy’s hands left his knees. He crawled closer to the shrine, stopping whenever he felt the blood red smoke twirl a bit too close for comfort, of when the eyes of his strange admirer became too human for him tolerate. The boy made it about halfway when he was met with delicate tips of the deity’s fingers. They guided his chin up, and the boy, though defiant, obeyed. 

A light from one of the oil lamps fluttered, and then died out. The room grew darker and the boy, feeling the embrace of the Void beginning to surround him, wondered what he would do to make the most of his time left in Dunwall. Though he fancied these nightly conversations, ultimately they amounted to little. Talking would not change his fate, nor would it speed the fall of this terrible city.

It then suddenly dawned upon the boy that he’d never been to the Tower, had never come close to it. There was never a reason for him to ever visit the sanctum. But now, after several months of watching the dying city begin to fester with signs of an unknown plague, the boy couldn’t help but wish to see it. It wasn’t a last wish, but rather a desire to share the wealth. If anything _else_ could be said of a sickness, it was that, under the pale eyes of death, all were equal. 

The Knife of Dunwall fell on one knee. His hand continued to carry the boy’s face, and his fingers curled a little as he neared closer. “Look at me,” he asked in a whisper. “Knowing what you know, what will you do?”

The light from the remaining lamps began to waver. The boy blinked, his eyes appearing darker as the lights grew dim. “Why are you asking me this?” 

A large hand grabbed the boy’s. “Because, my little black-eyed friend, I can finally read you, and what’s motivating you to consider inheriting my mark.” 

It was still a whisper, but unlike before there was something detectably ominous about it. What it was though, the boy couldn’t decipher. It perturbed him, made him slightly anxious and excited. It intrigued him. He was curious.

The boy stared into the eyes of death. “I desire to watch this city feed on itself,” he said, smiling pleasantly as the deity continued to support him. “In another, less time oriented scenario, I’d gladly watch with patience as this world crumbled. But it seems I will not be awarded this opportunity. So, instead, I’ll use what time I’ve left and initiate indiscriminate chaos.”

The Knife of Dunwall was silent. With the limited lighting it was impossible to tell whether he found the boy’s answer agreeable or not. But the boy could the Void cradling him, supporting him, and the large hand still held on to his smaller one. Coming from a supposed god, it was surprisingly intimate.

“Daud.” 

It was a sound from long ago. A name whispered once in a dream. The memory of that night left behind a strange, familiar warmth. It almost made up for the painful burn, the unforgivable mark searing into his flesh. 

“Yes?”

The outsider’s hand retracted from the Knife of Dunwall's. He held it in his other, his thumb rolling across the fresh, tingling brand. “I enjoyed these talks with you,” he replied, watching the blue glimmer from the deity’s eyes begin to fade.

The final lamp gave one last stuttered flash, and then died.


End file.
